


The Bridge

by ghuune



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Angst, Cockles, Emotional Misha, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Pranking, UST, bi!panic, everybody's pretty much a dick in this one, set fic, tinhat!verse, two part pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 00:47:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6173377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghuune/pseuds/ghuune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two part fic. First half is Jensen's POV and concerns how Jared learns about his unusual friendship with Misha. Second half is Misha's POV: Jensen and Misha's lack of communication create a serious problem for them on set. Also known as, "the one where sex begins to grow into intimacy."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bridge

**Author's Note:**

> Jensen & Misha's earliest public neck kiss was at 2011 ComicCon ;)

I. NOVEMBER 22th, 2009: FILMING “THE SONG REMAINS THE SAME”  
Jensen glanced into the Impala's side mirror yet again. That lopsided nostril always drove him nuts. He picked at his hair. 

“Seriously?” Jared drummed his knuckles on the Impala's hood. “I'm gonna put a mirror on the lid of your coffin. What's with all the preening?”

Jensen's eye snagged on Misha, gliding into the makeup trailer to have his hair gelled. He didn't glance their way, Jensen in the driver's seat with his legs draped outside the open door, Jared lounging against the hood, but they both watched as he climbed the steps and disappeared inside. 

The thing about Misha? He couldn't keep from corpsing to save his life, and he wasn't what you'd call a classic beauty, but he caught the eye and held it. The dude could be talking about what he had for breakfast and you'd still be entranced. Even exhausted, ashen, bags under his eyes, he crackled with caged energy.

But Jensen couldn't talk about that, so he played it off, grooming his hair with exaggerated care. “Day one thousand working together, and I'm still prettier than you.”

“And I'm still taller,” Jared said.  
\--  
Misha hadn't been on set for a month. They'd shot each other texts now and again, memes or updates with Danneel in the cc's, and Jensen was vaguely aware Danneel and Misha were in the middle of some furious war about some political situation he didn't give two shits about, but other than that, it'd been all quiet on the Misha front. 

Every time something happened that made him laugh, he pulled out his phone to let Misha in on the joke, only to put it back in his pocket. It didn't have to be weird—-Jared texted everyone, all the time, including Jensen when he was standing right there---but it felt like it'd be weird. Like opening a door better left shut. Just easier all around to put the phone down and maintain radio silence.

He was thinking of that, turning it over in his head again---because, yeah, he'd blown the guy more than once but he wouldn't shoot him a text? Was that just his crazy acting up again?---when firm lips pressed his neck beneath his ear. 

“Hey,” Misha said, slipping into the chair beside him. 

Jensen rolled his shoulders to release the flash of sensation caused by Misha's kiss. Misha regarded him with a grin, sly and warm.

“Don't do that,” Jensen muttered.

Misha shrugged. “Why not?”

“Cos it looks gay, that's why.”

“And you care.”

“Damn right I care. Crew talks; I got Danneel to think about.”

Misha looked down at the coffee in his hands. He was suited up as Cas with his hair a thistle-brush of wicked spikes. For a moment, he looked serious, intent, and Jensen wondered if he'd decided to nope out of this exchange by going into character. 

He rested his elbows on his knees, poked his chin forward, showing the long line of his neck, and Jensen licked his lips, his tongue dragging slow. Misha glanced at him, caught that lick in the gut with a sharp inhale, his eyes narrowing, pupils flaring as he focused. And what was funny about it was, he could still be in character. 

And, like Dean, Jensen's eyes dropped to his long fingers, wrapped around that coffee cup, fingertips flushed red with its heat. His throat ached. He swallowed.

Okay, it was official. He was not gonna make it through today _at all._

“I am careful, whether you believe that or not,” Misha said at last, and Jensen snapped his eyes back to his face, guiltily banishing all thoughts of warm-fingered handjobs. “Keep in mind Danneel is my friend. Keep in mind also that my job is on the line. Keep in mind thirdly that I'm not an idiot, or at least I wasn't the last time I checked.” He shot a side-smile at Jensen. “There might be some residual brain damage from that last time we went drinking.”

Jared had taken them out and gotten them falling-down, puking-guts drunk. It was an embarrassing memory for everyone involved.

So Jensen said, “We don't talk about that.”

Misha chuckled and straightened up in the chair. “Yes, better not.” 

“But seriously, don't do that. We're not like that. Friends don't do things like that.”

“Could've fooled me,” Misha said. Then he slashed a hand through the air. “Whatever, Jensen. I won't argue if you want to skip the flowers.”

He looked down and sipped his coffee. Jensen smelled it. Heavy cream in a quad shot, that was Misha's drink. 

Speaking quickly to cover a twinge of pain he didn't understand, he asked, “Can I have some?” 

Misha raised an eyebrow and handed it over. 

Jensen held his eyes as he raised the cup to his lips. Misha's expression turned helpless as Jensen sipped, his lips where Misha's lips had been, tasting what Misha tasted. The creamy coffee, hot like Misha's mouth would be. 

Oh, hell. He was doing himself exactly zero favors, even though all he'd meant to do was get the guy back for that kiss. He passed the cup back and Misha's fingers traced his as he accepted it, making Jensen shake so hot coffee dolphin-jumped from the mouth of the lid and onto his hand. 

Misha's eyes turned feral. He snatched his wrist, glanced around, then brought his hand to his mouth, his soft tongue lapping the spill off the meaty pad beneath his thumb, dragging hot up the back of his hand. 

This was escalating quickly. Jensen sucked in a breath, his groin tightening. 

“Didn't want to waste it,” Misha deadpanned, letting him go. He exhaled, slapped his thigh and stood, drawing Cas's trench around him for reasons Jensen understood all too well. “Let's do some work.”  
\---  
Filming was every bit as painful as Jensen had feared. 

Their usual trolling, standing too close, staring too long, but this was so much worse. Jensen screwed the pooch again and again, unable to keep his eyes off Misha's mouth when Cas had lines. Every time their eyes met, his ears burned. Misha would start a take with Cas's earnest stare and then lose it, spinning away, laughing. The close standing morphed into Jensen brushing Misha's thigh with the backs of his fingers, Misha pressing against his back to look over his shoulder, his pinky resting beside his hand on the table. 

This was unprofessional, immature, and it wasn't like they were alone here, but it was like some kind of physical need. He couldn't help it. The only saving grace was Misha was riding this struggle-bus right alongside him. 

Jared, who'd always taken this nonsense in stride before, glanced between them, his eyebrows raised so his forehead crumpled. It almost worked for Sam in this scene, so the director reserved his caustic comments for Misha and Jensen. 

Eventually, he reblocked the scene so there was a good three feet of space between them, growling at the delay even as they stared at each other, mortified that they were being sent to separate corners like three year olds. And even _that_ didn't really help, because they still had to make eye contact, and all in all, this was the worst torture in the world. 

After yet another agonizing take where all three of them acted like they'd never seen a camera before, Jared grabbed his arm and towed him off to the side of the set.

“All right, give,” he said. “What the actual hell is going on? Because standing there with the two of you? Is like taking a surprise visit to the moon. There's no fucking air there. Like, _what_ is happening?”

Jensen scrubbed his hand over his face to hide his expression as he said, “Look, man, I just don't know.”

He didn't like to lie to Jared, but what choice did he have? They were shooting. Time enough to explain this mess to him after. Granted, that was an explanation that was long overdue.

“Tank this for me, man,” he begged. “Get me an hour to just get it together.”

Jared grinned impishly. “I'm liking this idea. What do you want me to do?” 

“I don't know—-set something on fire, for all I care. No. Do not do that. Just... if anybody can hold up filming for an hour, it's you. I have all the faith, man.”

“You should,” Jared said, grinning, “and I will, because you asked.” He snap-pointed at him, his eyes growing serious. “But later, you need to talk to me. You can tell me anything, you know that. Deal?”

Jensen slapped his shoulder. Ordinarily this sort of favor would call for a hug, but, right now? Not so much. 

“Thanks.” 

“No problem.” Jared beamed, the wide, wild puppy smile that usually led to toilet paper strewn all over the house and cherished heirlooms shattered on the floor. “Actually, I've been looking for an excuse to lighten things up around here.”

He loped off. 

For the sake of appearances, Jensen knew he should stand by and at least watch whatever it was Jared was about to do, be seen laughing at it, more shenanigans for the gag reel. 

Then he was yanked backward, pulled by the back of Dean's plaid shirt, even as something crashed in the distance with the sound of the budget weeping. 

“Don't say anything,” Misha said in his ear as he spun him around so Jensen could walk like a regular human being. “I heard all of that and I'm not wasting any time.”

“You sure aren't.”

“Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting?” 

“Thought your wife was the best wife ever.” Jensen was not one hundred percent successful at keeping the bitterness from his voice. He didn't like the constant condom scramble, the dirty double-exposed imagery of some other man in his position. It wasn't his place to police Misha—-they were friends with benefits, not committed to each other at all---but it nagged at him. He dealt with it by not thinking about it.

He could _hear_ Misha roll his eyes, even though Misha's hand was at the back of his neck now so he couldn't turn his head to see. 

“My wife is pregnant, and regardless what you think, I'm not an ass,” he said, giving Jensen a little shove to urge him up the steps to his trailer, following close behind. “She knows and understands about you. I'm not bringing some other complication into our marriage when she already feels ugly and hormonal.”

“But I don't make her feel ugly and hormonal?” Jensen turned around to face him as the trailer door closed behind him. “Just me?” 

Misha stepped into his space. Jensen held his ground, staring at his lips, the joint of his jaw with just the barest hint of stubble, the lickable space below it. The rush of blood from his brain to his cock rendered him lightheaded. He swayed towards Misha, the scent of his soap, the heat of him.

“What are you asking me, really?” he asked. “Is this that no-men-but-me thing again, Jen? Because the answer there is no. Not when I only get to have you maybe three days out of the month, that's outrageous. But rejoice, friend,” and he put a little twist on the word that made Jensen squirm, suddenly very much not caring about whether Misha had other lovers, “because this past month I've been following your rules. Vicki's idea, not mine.”

For the sake of his sanity, Jensen chose to ignore the way his stomach leapt at that, but he'd already broken into a shit-eating grin. To cover his ass, he blinked, feigning surprise. “Wait. Did you just call me Jen?”

“Don't get used to it,” Misha said, and then he took his mouth, kissed him hard, his lips chapped rough. It was so unlike Danneel's softness, her mouth like rose petals on his lips, so tender it scared him, made him go slow and gentle to avoid bruising her. That was not an issue here. The contrast made his head spin, everything else falling away as he kissed Misha back, tasted the lingering flavors of coffee and cream. 

They were baffled by clothing, Misha wrestling with his trench, Jensen undoing his belt. He slid his palm up the length of Misha's erection, stiff and hot in Cas's slacks, rubbing circles, even as Misha muttered a curse and knocked his hand away. “Wardrobe,” he grumbled, hot eyes flashing up to his. It'd look fifteen kinds of suspicious if he had to ask for another pair of pants, and oh by the way, he'll be dry-cleaning the first pair on his own dime. 

The thought of it made Jensen laugh, and Misha took advantage of his open mouth to thrust in hard, his long tongue filling it so he had to choose between sucking it or not breathing. He chose the latter, and Misha groaned and thrust against him harder, his hands busy unbuttoning, unzipping.

The sound of the zipper chewing down the teeth of that fly was the most welcome sound on Earth.

Misha yanked at Cas's tie as he herded Jensen back towards the narrow bed. Jensen threw Dean's shirts off in one rumpled heap, the small part of him that hadn't gone insane sending up a prayer they wouldn't wrinkle during their time on the floor.

Misha pushed him down; Jensen, loose-limbed, desire an ache all through him. It just did him in when Misha got like this. He snatched open-mouthed kisses off his neck and chest to hear his breath catch, their cocks sliding together, pressed between their bodies. Jensen spread his legs to give him better access, rewarded by Misha's expression, humble and grateful as it always was when he opened for him. The bittersweet pain that caused him was familiar by now.

“I've been waiting too,” he said. The words came out unvoiced, and if Misha heard them, he gave no sign.

Misha arched up so he could squeeze their cocks in his fist and pump them together, lashes floating closed, his mouth falling open, his skin glowing in the pale light from the window. Jensen's precum slicked them both, his foreskin slipping wet and slick over the tender head of his cock, and he gasped with the feel of it, fighting to breathe. This, this smell, the heat, Misha's beautiful fingers and the things they did, his long moans spiralling higher and louder as his excitement grew, that look on his face when lust enslaved him. He'd missed it, craved it. It was happening now, and it was too much. 

Misha fell forward onto one arm, shaking, his hips working as he drove them together, Jensen's hand there too, helping. He bowed up to kiss him again, gasped alongside his cheek until he reached his ear, took it in his mouth and bit. Misha's cry stabbed out into the world. Their fingers fumbled together, the rhythm breaking, each of them close and desperate and not listening to each other anymore. 

Misha turned his face to his hair, the scrape of his teeth against Jensen's scalp as he silently screamed and shuddered. His cum lashed hot lines on Jensen's stomach.

With a loud, punched groan, Jensen went over the edge. He was childish enough to aim himself so Misha got a good body spray too.

And then there was the frantic clean up, because no matter what Jared had done, they didn't have much longer to play hooky, and they couldn't go back to set flushed and smelling of chlorine. Jensen passed Misha the wet washcloth and turned his back so he didn't have to watch him give himself a GI bath. After a month of not having him, that little interlude was not enough, not at all. He wanted to keep the edge off as long as possible: there were only so many things he could ask Jared to sabotage for their sake. He rubbed cologne on himself, started to pass it to Misha, then stopped.

Well, yeah, that would give the whole thing away, wouldn't it.

Misha froze with his hand half-extended, smiling hugely as the same realization dawned on him, and at the stricken expression on Jensen's face at how close that had been. “Got any others?” he asked. 

Jensen searched the medicine cabinet. “Some lotion. Dani's. Sorry, dude, it's vanilla bean.”

Misha squinted and snorted. “Beats vanilla cum. Give it here.”

Misha left the trailer first, dressed once more as Cas, headed to the makeup trailer to have his hair touched up, armed with the excuse that he'd taken a nap. The ear Jensen had chewed on was still red.  
\---  
When Jensen reentered his trailer, it was to the sight of Jared sitting in the recliner, an open bottle of Scotch on the table beside him. Jared caught his eye and poured a finger into a glass for him.

“The smell when I walked in here, I swear to God I had flashbacks to my college dorm,” he said. “So maybe don't explain anything?”

Jensen took the glass from him and sat down on the sofa. He stared down at the amber liquor. “This one of your specials?”

“Yeah. It's not often I get to toast the death of my best friend's career. Figured it deserved it.”

Jensen snapped his head up to look at him. “What's that?”

“You're fucking Misha, aren't you?” Jared leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, and twirled his glass between his palms. “How long has that been going on?”

“Been going on a few months now,” Jensen admitted. He met Jared's hazel eyes. “World hasn't ended yet.”

Jared exhaled the peaty aroma of good Scotch. “I'm not gonna ask if you thought this through. I know you haven't.”

Jensen grimaced. “It's no big deal. We're just letting off steam, having some fun together.”

“Something like this? Is not just fun, Jay! What possible good can this do for you? For the Show?”

The alcohol loosened Jensen's tongue. “It's got nothing to do with the Show.”

“It does when you're screwing one of the regulars.” Jared shook his head. “Dude, I'm not trying to tell you your business, but I'm worried. You need to lock this shit down, because today? You lost it.”

“Yeah... but that's not gonna happen again.” Jensen shot the remainder of the alcohol in his glass. The booze slammed into his veins with the strength of a train, undoing the tightness caused by the tension in Jared's voice. “I mean, I hear you, but it's really okay, I swear.”

“And Danneel?” Jared asked. “Does she know?”

“You really think I'd go behind her back? Have we met? I talked to her about it over the break.”

“You talked to her, but not to me.” Jared, looking hurt, avoided Jensen's eyes. 

Jensen rubbed the back of his neck. “I knew you wouldn't approve,” he muttered. 

“Whether I approve or not is entirely besides the point---it's reckless! You think you can handle it, but what if it all goes bad? And then you still have to work with him? And he's married? And you're gonna be engaged? Like, this situation could not possibly get more complicated. What in the hell are you thinking?”

Jensen had had enough. He set his empty glass down on the table with a definitive clink. “I'm thinking I like it,” he said. “I'm thinking it's not really any of your business. I'm thinking that when we're done with each other, we'll go out for a beer and rehash the highlights and then we'll get back to work with no harm done. Misha's that kind of guy.”

“But you know you're not.” Jared eyed him. “I just need you to be very, very careful with this thing. I don't want this set to go bad, the way that it can. You know exactly what I'm talking about.”

When the leads on 'Dark Angel' started dating, it sent that show into a death spiral it could not pull out of. That was because Michael Weatherby was a douche and a half, and Jessica Alba had gone over the edge ages ago. Jensen didn't even engage with that point, because that wasn't him or Misha, not by miles. 

Jared refilled his drink. “And then there's your family.”

Jensen flinched. 

“They dealt with Austin,” he said, taking the bottle when Jared passed it so he could refill his glass too. “Found a way to explain it to themselves and in the end, no one was the wiser.”

“So you're banking on the holy power of denial to save your ass,” Jared said. “Great. Glad you have a plan.”

“What can I tell you?” Jensen said. “Really. Tell me. What is it you need to hear? I'm being careful. So is he. Today was just.... He hasn't been around for awhile, all right? I'm sorry.”

“I knocked over one of the walls of the set with a flying tackle,” Jared said, smiling for the first time. “You should've seen Doug's face.” 

Jensen took down half of his new glass. “You said I could tell you anything. Is that still true? Are we all right?”

Jared blew out, his eyes rolling wide. “I mean, yeah, of course. I'm going to back your play no matter what. Forever, man. Look, I'm sorry I jumped down your throat, it's just---I suspected it, all right, and I really didn't want it to be true. That night we went out---”

Yeah, that night they went out. By the fifth drink he and Misha were pressing each other into walls and breathing from each other's open mouths, dying to kiss, erections like railroad spikes, and every time Jared came gamboling around the corner so they had to fly apart like pool balls ricocheting. 

Jared, surfacing from the same memory, said, “If it's dick you're after, why not get some townie to haul your ashes? Why Misha?”

Jensen looked down into his glass. Why Misha? Damned good question, actually. He liked sex with men, and while he didn't love that truth about himself, it was there and he could deal with it. Still, it wasn't like he checked every dude out. He didn't stick his dick in glory holes or cruise for random sex, that was just gross. Just, sometimes, some guy rang the bell. Misha rang that bell. Rang it 'til it deafened him. 

But he couldn't say something like that to Jared. 

Misha was also a fantastic fuck. Definitely couldn't say that, either.

He settled on a lie. “He's my friend. I trust him to look after this. Some random townie might get a hole in his pocket and sell me out. Misha knows if he messes up, he's out of the Show. Safer this way.”

Jared whuffled a laugh. “That's kind of cold.”

“But still kind of the truth,” Jensen said. He frowned, and reached for the bottle again. 

II. OCTOBER 20th, 2010: FILMING “CAGED HEAT”  
If there was any way to get Jared to stop being an asshole, Misha would love to know it. 

He rolled his eyes to the heavens and sent up a silent prayer to that effect to whatever deity might be interested, because he was staring at his car, the one he needed to drive home to get his four hours of sleep or whatever amount God would let him have, and there it was, standing, useless, on four flat tires.

It was 3 o'clock in the morning. He wanted to cry.

He cleared his throat and took out his cell phone to call a cab.  
\---  
His apartment door hadn't even swung shut behind him when Vicki called, crying. She was at her wit's end with West, who wouldn't sleep unless he was being held, so she'd been pacing their house with him for five straight hours. She put the phone on speaker and bawled. 

Vicki was not a weepy person, but the combination of postpartum hormonal changes, exhaustion, and worry was overwhelming her. Misha, listening to her sob, cried too; if he were there, they could take it in turns to hold West. He could spoon her in bed, prop her up with West on her chest. All three of them could sleep. The memory of the smell of her hair, curling crisp against his nose as they all breathed together, made him yearn to be back home where he was safe and needed and loved.

Eventually, she snuffled herself out. “Come back as soon as you can,” she said. “I love you.”

Misha's heart broke as he guiltily turned the cell phone off, because he really did need to sleep.  
\---  
The script was a joke on God's part. It showcased Castiel, and Misha was just too fucking tired to even care. 

Any other script! Any. Other. Script. He was hardly in most episodes, and the one month he wouldn't've given a flying fuck about that, he had to get all these heavy character arcs. All he wanted was to be home with Vicki and his sick baby, not on set choking back the urge to throttle Jensen and Jared, who, knowing goddamned well what he was facing right now, did everything they could to make filming run late and his life completely miserable.

“Wait til you have kids,” he snarled, after Jared made him blow it yet again. “You think I won't fuck you around, you have another thought coming.” 

“Bring it, dude. I'll be waiting. You haven't won one yet.”

Harsh, but true. Misha's sense of humor didn't really work on Jared. He hadn't found a way to make the man corpse yet, not if he were armed and ready for him. 

He cast a pleading glance at Jensen, who could sometimes be convinced to step in, but Jensen just smiled back like a goofball. Misha losing his shit was one of his favorite Mishas, apparently, and there'd be no help from him.

Misha grit his teeth and threw himself into the next take.  
\---  
Jensen wasn't doing him any favors, but Jensen was also not leaving him alone to stew. Every time Misha turned around, there he was, practically climbing up his asshole. Misha knew his first mistake was he hadn't gone directly to his trailer as soon as he got on set, so this was the man's petty revenge. However---and he felt like he'd earned this one---he _had_ just returned from the birth of his son. Not only was he flush with pride in his wife and new baby, but he also was drained of all energy by the intrusion of that tiny wick of life, who cried at all hours and crapped indiscriminately and was altogether adorable and amazing. He didn't have any energy left over for fuck-buddies, even if the fuck-buddy in question was also his best friend.

“Hey. You. You mad at me?” Jensen asked.

Misha balanced a platter of food in one hand, holding a mug of tea with honey and lemon in the other. His throat hurt from take after take of Castiel's window-shattering growl. Yet another thing to lay at those assholes' feet.

“Why on Earth would I ever be mad at you?” 

Jensen dipped his head and lowered his voice. “You haven't come by since you got back.”

“Hasn't been time.” Misha cut his eyes to let him know whose fault that was. If they could get a goddamned thing shot in a reasonable timespan, he could sleep, and if he could sleep, Jensen could get laid. Which was obviously all he was after, the self-centered prick.

“C'mon,” Jensen said. “We're just messing with you because we're happy for you.”

“This is a fuck of a way to show it,” he muttered, cutting around him, looking for a place away from him to sit. Jensen stuck with him like a tick on a dog, so at last Misha rolled his eyes and the two men settled at a picnic table beneath a tree.

It was an unusually clear and beautiful day. The sun poured over Misha's bare skin like warm honey, but the air snapped cool. It was a refreshing combination, and he wished Jensen would fuck off so he could soak it in, not be distracted by his closeness.

Because there was a thing he wanted from him, though he knew better than to ask. Whenever he talked Vicki through her hysterical worries that West would die, that they were too stupid to have children---thoughts he privately shared, but didn't burden her with, because he wasn't the one going crazy with hormones---he hung up the phone feeling _heavy._ His mental closets and drawers overflowed with joy and pride and worry and disaster; having someone help store all these feelings would be a relief.

The obvious answer was Jensen, but Jensen, from the moment Misha had returned to set and met his eyes, had refused to do any such thing. So, yeah, he was out of humor with the guy. If all Jensen was good for was orgasms and kisses, well, Misha didn't need that right now. What he needed? Was a fucking break.

And of course he couldn't say any of that, so he picked at his salad and avoided Jensen's eyes, squinting instead at the sunlight filtered, orange and red, through autumn leaves.

A touch on his hand brought his attention back to Jensen, stretched across the table, his frat-boy laughing expression gone tender and quiet.

“Hey,” he said. “I'm here, you know.”

“In the sense that you're flesh and blood and breathing, yes, I'm aware of that.” Misha bit down on a forkful of spinach and mushroom and returned to his contemplation of the beauty of creation.

Jensen blew out. “I'm not getting what I've done to deserve this attitude.”

Misha laughed bitterly. Jensen was getting angry at _him?_ This oblivious jackass.

“You really do think the world revolves around you, don't you?” he said. “No, sorry, my mistake: the world revolves around both Jared and you.”

“That's a dick thing to say,” Jensen said. “I mean, excuse me for missing you while you were gone.”

“I was gone having a baby.”

“And we said Congratulations and Mazel Tov when you got back. What more do you want from us?”

“A little respect would be nice.” Misha finally met his eyes. Jensen was glaring, pissed, so he glared back harder. “You think I like working on an hour of sleep? You think it's fun for me to get back to my car and find I can't fucking drive it? I had to sleep in the back the other night because I couldn't figure out why it wouldn't turn on!”

That'd been Jared, again. Somehow he'd gotten ahold of Misha's keys and turned his headlights on. By the time Misha had got done filming, his car battery was flatter than a crow's lunch. The mechanics on set were getting so they had someone on call just to give him a jump.

Jensen blinked and then squinted quizzically. “You slept in the back seat?” 

“Oh, you sweet, innocent child of privilege. Hundreds of thousands of people manage the feat each and every day.” Misha chomped down on another forkful of salad, wishing the crunch of vegetables between his molars were Jensen's fingerbones. In fact, he'd napped, out of sheer existential despair, in the backseat before spending the rest of the night in his trailer, but Jensen frequently needed a reality check, so he kept that part to himself.

To his credit, he looked guilty for a moment before shrugging it off. “Well, maybe you should try not being a dumbass and park further away from Jared's trailer.”

“So I can walk a mile and a half to set? Thanks so much for that tip. Maybe _you_ should try telling your brother,” and Misha hit that word with some serious sarcasm, “to get off my back for a couple of days. I just want to finish this shoot and get back home before Vicki drowns West in the bathtub. Is that _so_ much to ask?”

Jensen winced. “Is it that bad?”

This time Misha relented, because no, Vicki would never do that. He didn't think so, anyway. The unwelcome spike of anxiety was just one more emotion he didn't have the room for. “It was a bad joke,” he admitted, stirring the remnants of his salad with his fork, mining for the last of the olives. “Still, this bullshit? I don't need it.”

“Well, I need something.” Jensen tipped his head in a bid to catch Misha's eyes.

“Yes, I'm well aware,” he said, “and goddammit, Jensen, you're just going to have to do without. Deal with it.”

He rocketed up off the bench, because he couldn't take any more of this conversation, pitched the salad into a nearby trash barrel, and returned to set.  
\---  
It was a testament to just how terrible a human being he really was that worrying about whether he'd just torpedoed his special friendship with Jensen occupied the topmost level of his mind for the rest of the day. 

Misha loathed himself. 

By some miracle, Jared had run out of creative ways to mess with his coverage and resorted to letting out silent but deadly farts. Nothing worse than a bodybuilder's gas, redolent of eggs and chicken and broccoli. The smell was hideous, but Misha could handle it. He got through his takes without any other disruption than his own acrid thoughts.

Even with those blessings, Misha didn't finish shooting until after midnight. He checked his phone as he walked to his car, close to a panic attack wondering what shape it would be in today. He'd moved it after lunch, so he had time to call home.

Vicki answered, sounding brighter. West had finally stopped coughing. Her girlfriend Alicia had come to stay and help her, so she'd gotten some sleep. She wrapped up the status report with, “Everything is fine, for the moment. But you---something's wrong.”

“Just work,” Misha said, scrubbing his hand over his mouth. It'd be impolitic to complain to her about his problems with his lover. “We've been running over a lot.”

“You're lying.”

He cursed how good she was at reading him. “Well... yes,” he said. “It's nothing, though. I don't want to... it's nothing.”

She breathed with him on the other end, their inhalations and exhalations syncing in spite of the distance between them. “I want to dig,” she said at last, “but it's late, sweet. If you get it organized in your head and want to share it, you know how to reach me. I trust you.”

It was what she always said when he held something back from her. _I trust you._ Tears burned his eyes. He was so tired. All he wanted was to lay this on her. On someone. It weighed too much. But she was already carrying the burden of their entire family on her shoulders; he would not be that selfish. 

“You're my goddess and I love you,” he said, trying to keep the sad little boy sniffle out of his voice. 

“I know that already, and I love you, too,” she said. 

She hung up.

As soon as the silence descended, Misha folded to the curb. He sat with his feet in the road and his forehead on his knees and let himself be broken. It was okay that this was too much for him. It didn't make him a failure. All it meant was that, for the time being, he couldn't handle this weight. It didn't mean he'd never be strong enough. 

This was what he deserved for allowing himself to think his feelings could ever matter to Jensen. It was a stupid pit to fall into and he'd known, from the beginning, what a risk he was taking. He'd slept with quite a few men, but he didn't enjoy any of them as much as he enjoyed him. None of them looked up at him with tender adoration. None of them opened for him the way he did. Those looks, those touches, had let Jensen worm past Misha's defenses to some spot no other man had reached---a place where emotions lived.

And he, idiot and trusting fool that he was, had decided that must mean... something. That when the time came, Jensen would be there to lean on. 

How many times did he have to learn that his worth was measured in his usefulness to other people? Jensen wouldn't gain a thing by being there for him emotionally. That wasn't his role. 

So none of this was unforseen or unexpected. Still, he felt hurt, he felt surprised, he felt frightened, and he let those emotions be without judging them. Emotions were like weather systems; they swept through him and past him, beyond his control. Even if you ran for shelter from the rain, you still got wet; you might as well conserve your energy and just keep walking to your destination. 

An arm wrapped around his shaking shoulders. 

He stiffened, but Jensen exerted a gentle, towing pressure, pulling him into the curve of his ribs. He made shushing noises against his hair, holding him so Misha's nose was filled with his scent. His cheek pressed against the warmth of Jensen's chest. 

“I didn't know it would be so hard,” he thought he heard him say, but that didn't make sense. 

They sat together like that until Misha was able to pull away and snuffle back the wetness in his sinuses. He blotted his face with the sleeve of his shirt. 

Jensen sat silently, watching him. Misha studied him for any sign of rejection, any pulling away, but his face was calm. 

“Where did you come from?” he asked. 

“I was driving back to see if you needed a lift,” Jensen said. “I thought about what went down today, and fact is, I'm a dick.” He shrugged. “Thought I could make up some karma. That's how it works, right?”

Misha laughed a little. “Not exactly.” 

Jensen didn't take his arm off his shoulders. His fingers petted his upper arm with small sweeping motions.

He cleared his throat. “Look, man, whatever else there is between us, you're my friend. And the way I've been? Isn't the kind of way I want to treat my friends.”

Misha nodded but stayed silent, because he wanted to hear this.

“I'm not gonna speak for Jared and I'm not gonna apologize for him either, but I gotta say, on my part, when I heard you say how things were going for you, I should've taken a step back. I was about to, but you flounced off like a rodeo queen.”

Misha husked a small laugh. The memory of the way Jensen's eyes had widened, shocked, when he stood so abruptly suddenly came to him, and he wondered why he hadn't understood before.

Jensen squinted into the distance, his thoroughbred profile screwed up with the effort it was taking him to get this out. After a pause to get the words organized in his head, he went on, “I haven't had a baby. I don't know how that is yet. But when I do have one, I really hope you don't do me the way I've been doing you. I wanted to say that. And, I'm still a dick but... I hope we're good." He swung his head around then and regarded Misha, not hiding the raw expression of concern in his eyes, his dimples flashing as he frowned.

It was all Misha could do not to kiss him, but he managed it. If they started that now, after all that crying he'd just done, he would fall in love and that'd be the end of it. This was sweet, but the reminder he'd just served himself was still fresh: He could not fully trust Jensen, not like that, not the way he trusted Vicki. 

But he could, and would, let Jensen be his friend. 

So he said, “Your eerily well-timed apology is accepted.”

The night sky was almost purple with stars. Jensen took his arm off his shoulders and took his hand in his.

“Look,” he said, guiding Misha's hand up to point. “There. There. And there. You see them?”

“Orion's belt,” Misha started to say, but Jensen shushed him.

“No. Those are the points of the King's Crown, okay? And there. That's his amulet, hanging around his neck. And that star there? That's his hair. He's got long hair, like Jared.”

Misha snorted, because Jensen, being whimsical? Like, were the dead rising or what?

Jensen looked into his eyes. Clear green eyes. Even by starlight they were green, his lashes throwing purple shadows.

“Now you show me,” he said.

Misha scanned the heavens. “Okay...” he said. “Those stars over there.” He cupped Jensen's warm palm in his, extended his finger to point at the Pleiades. “The Great Horseshoe Crab....”


End file.
